


he's my brother

by bibliosexual



Series: the hunger games [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:15:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9585035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosexual/pseuds/bibliosexual
Summary: “Scott McCall,” the Reaper says. Leans into the microphone, smiles, all fangs. Crinkles the little piece of paper in her hands. Stiles blinks and it’s an arrow, blinks again and it’s in Scott’s neck. There’s blood on his lips and his hands are opening, closing, around nothing. Stiles is standing right beside him but it’s like he’s underwater, sluggish, willing himself to move but he can’t. There’s a hand tightening on his throat, a background roar of voices, and Scott’s eyes on his, wide and so, so dark–He jolts awake gasping, thrashing, to someone knocking on the door to his compartment.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://bibliosexxual.tumblr.com/post/129528787386/the-hunger-games-hes-my-brother) on my tumblr!

“Scott McCall,” the Reaper says. Leans into the microphone, smiles, all fangs. Crinkles the little piece of paper in her hands. Stiles blinks and it’s an arrow, blinks again and it’s in Scott’s neck. There’s blood on his lips and his hands are opening, closing, around nothing. Stiles is standing right beside him but it’s like he’s underwater, sluggish, willing himself to move but he _can’t._ There’s a hand tightening on his throat, a background roar of voices, and Scott’s eyes on his, wide and so, so dark–

He jolts awake gasping, thrashing, to someone knocking on the door to his compartment.

It’s Derek. Stiles isn’t sure who, exactly, he expected to be trying to talk to him at three in the morning, but–well. Not Derek. He groans and leans his forehead on the door frame, the vibrations of the train juddering through his skull. He can feel Derek’s creepy-intense pale eyes, curious, watching him. 

“You know you’re not allowed to kill me ‘til the arena, right?”

“What,” Derek blinks, “I wasn’t–-” he hunches his shoulders defensively, “I mean–-you were having a nightmare.”

“How did you even–- oh, wait. Werewolf.” Duh. He feels stupid for forgetting. It’s obvious, usually. That evening at dinner Derek had surreptitiously dropped his knife and fork and cut into his steak with his claws when he thought no one was looking. And he does this thing whenever Stiles accidentally gets too close, this leaning-looming-nostril-flare thing, like he’s smelling all of Stiles’ secrets. It’s kind of disconcerting.

He’s different tonight, though. Softer somehow, young-looking, standing there in just a worn T-shirt and boxers, bare hairy feet. He’s got shadows under his eyes, and his hair’s pressed flat on one side like he just rolled out of bed. Stiles winces. “Sorry if I woke you up, dude.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Derek says awkwardly.

“Yeah.” Stiles nods. “Kinda hard to do after finding out you’re about to die a horrible death, huh. Well. I mean. _You_ might not, you’re-–” He gestures to Derek’s muscle-y everything. They’ll go for Stiles long before they try to fight all _that_.

Derek frowns but doesn’t dispute it. “I thought it was, um, brave,” he says instead, his eyes hovering somewhere around Stiles’ collarbone. “What you did for Scott.”

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles says. This conversation feels so surreal, like he didn’t wake up after all. His mind is still trying to catch up to the fact that Derek’s willingly talking to him. Based on the way Derek’s been glaring at everyone since his name got called, Stiles kind of expected him to hole up in his compartment and brood until they got to the Capitol. Now that he thinks about it, this is the first time they’ve ever really talked beyond “Hey, pass the salt?” a few hours ago at dinner.

Derek shifts on his feet, says, quiet, “You must really care about him.”

“He’s my brother,” Stiles says simply. “And with his asthma, he’s–-he wouldn’t have made it fifteen minutes in there. Even assuming he did, he wouldn’t kill anyone. He doesn’t have it in him.”

“And you do?” Derek asks.

Stiles stands a little straighter, looks Derek straight in the eye. “I’ll do what I have to do.” He hopes it comes out sounding more sure than he feels. He thinks if, by some miracle, he survives long enough to get his hands on a gun, he might have a chance. Might. But it’s a pretty big _if_. Most years, guns aren’t even one of the weapons provided in the arena. It’s too easy to kill someone from a distance. Close combat is better, more personal, more exciting, more of a risk.

He thinks about earlier, when they all gathered around the TV in the rear section of the train to watch interviews of some of the other tributes. There was a black girl in a leather jacket who stared right into the camera the whole time, fierce and unafraid; a gangly boy with a halo of blond curls who ducked his head shyly when the interviewer asked him if he had a special someone back home;  two athletic-looking guys, identical twins, who bumped shoulders, cracked jokes, laughed like the Reaping was the best day of their lives; and a smiling guy in a sweater-vest who said he liked to code computers. Stiles knew as soon as he saw that one that he’d be one of the first to go. 

It’s a weird feeling, looking at someone and knowing you might kill them, knowing they might kill you. 

It’s a thought he can’t quite bring himself to apply to Derek.

“Well,” Derek says. He makes like he’s going to stick his hands in his pockets and then seems to remember he’s only wearing boxers. Stiles smiles. “Goodnight, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “goodnight,” and closes the door softly between them.


End file.
